


boy, stop pacing around the room

by RunawayCaboose



Series: My irregular heart beat is starting to correct itself [3]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: All the banter, Anxiety, Big Sister Bobbi, Fitz and his musics, Ghibli Movies, M/M, Pranks, Pretzels, Raspberry Ice Cream, Self Defense Classes, and cussing, complicated foreign pastries, swings, technology n stuff, the front bottoms - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-04
Updated: 2016-03-23
Packaged: 2018-05-24 15:06:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6157552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RunawayCaboose/pseuds/RunawayCaboose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fitz is going to slap whoever the prick was that ordered the complicated foreign pastry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Monday: shaking hands

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SLYNNER](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=SLYNNER).



> i wrote out Bobbi in the first story in this strain, so first time meeting here.
> 
> also SLYNNER you're a fucking nerd and i like you a lot. your encouragement is appreciated *does the finger guns*

      Fitz stared at his shaking hands, willing them to stop, but they didn’t. He huffed and shoved one hand into his coat pocket and used the other to wrap his scarf, light green and long, around his neck, pulling it tight. It was spring, but he wore it anyway, a habit, once used to cover the bruises on his neck, that now wouldn’t go away.

      He walked down the street, hunched shoulders and folded in on himself. It was early, pale light streaking the sky, as he reached the bakery and let himself in. It was warmer inside and he unwound his scarf and hung up his coat.

      “Heyo, Fitz!” Hunter said, draping himself over the counter. “We’ve got an order for you, baker man. It’s, uh, filhos a alintehana?”

      “Filhos a alentajana?” Hunter nodded. Well, damn. Fitz still filled the orders, simple cakes and pastries and that, but this? This was hard.

      “He wants them by Friday.” Fitz sighed, running a hand through his hair.

      “Okay, okay, okay. Yeah, I can do that.” Five days. He could do this, if he practiced.

      “Good man.” Hunter grinned. The bell jingled as the door opened, “Hey, Mack!”

      “Hey. Hi, Fitz.”

      “Hi, Mack.” Fitz leaned into Mack’s arms.

      “I just dropped in to see you, I’ve got to go to work.” Ah, yes, Mack’s job. He was a supervisor mechanic, but he only worked three times a week and spent the rest helping at the bakery.

      “Okay. We still on for tonight?” Mack nodded.

      “Of course, I’ll see you.” He left, leaving Hunter and Fitz alone again.

      “Love birds.” Hunter scoffed, but he was smiling. 

-

      Fitz wanted to slap whoever had ordered filhos a alentejana, slap them very hard and leave a red mark. It was a delicate pastry, traditionally folded into a crinkled flower-like shape. It was hard even with two good hands.

      So, he practiced, making a large bowl of dough, after, of course, making the daily pastries. He grabbed a small piece of dough and worked with it, slowly, gently, but his hands shook too much and on the first fold, the pastry tore. Fitz nearly screamed and he tried again. And again. And again.

      He spent the entire day trying and failing and he was ready to kill someone. He put on his coat in silence fury, wrapped his scarf around his neck and he stalked off to Mack’s apartment.

      He tapped his foot against the floor as Mack opened the door and he plastered himself against Mack’s chest.

      “Woah, woah, Turbo, are you alright?” Fitz took a shuddering breath as Mack rubbed his  back.

      “Yeah, yeah, yeah, just… Somebody ordered a really complicated pastry and my hands won’t stay still and I didn’t do it once today.” Mack leaned back and looked at the smaller man.

      “Why don’t we go somewhere? As long as you’re up for more socialization.”

      “Yeah, yeah, I’ll be fine.” Mack lead Fitz back onto the street and they climbed in Mack’s car.

      “Radio’s yours.” Mack said as he turned the key in the ignition and began to drive.

      Fitz ended up on a college station and leaned against the window, tapping his fingers to the indie beat. Mack glanced over at him.

      “You know this song?” Fitz nodded.

      “Yeah, just the words-” He waved his hands. “- you know. Aren’t there.” He exhaled, forming fog on the window.

      “You’ll get them back.” Mack said, carefully watching Fitz.

      “I hope so, this was one of my favourite songs.” Mack parked the car and Fitz slid smoothly out.

      “A park?” Mack nodded. Fitz slipped his hand into Mack’s and let Mack lead him on the stone path and up the hill.

      “This swing is so old.” Mack said, and indeed it looked like it. The swing was wooden, suspended on long chains from a huge tree. “You first.” Fitz hesitated, but sat on it, gripping the chains tightly. Mack began to push him, higher, higher, and Fitz laughed.

      “This is amazing! I feel like I’m flying. Mack, am I flying?” Mack laughed.

      “Yeah, Turbo, you’re flying.” Eventually, eventually, Fitz stumbled off the swing, laughing and dizzy. Mack looked at Fitz, watched him as he nearly tripped and tossed his head back, still laughing. Mack smiled, right now, no stranger was wondering what had happened to him. Mack didn’t care about who Fitz used to be, this was the Fitz that he knew. Fitz looked over at him and grinned. “Come on, Fitz, they sell the best pretzels down here,”

      Fitz situated himself on a bench, breathless, as Mack went to grab pretzels for the both of them. His hands were only shaking slightly. He was happy, but tense and his eyes darted back and forth, watching. A woman sat down on the bench next to him, pulling out her earbuds.

      “You okay?” SHe asked him. He nodded.

      “Y-yeah. Doing…” He snapped twice. “Good. Doing good.”

      “I’m Bobbi.”

      “Fitz.” They did not shake hands.

      “What brings you here, scarf boy?”

      “A friend.” He decided, clasping his hands in front of him. 

      “You don’t look good.” She said, studying his face.

      “Just,” He flapped his hands, “anxious.”

      “Look,” She fished around in the pocket of her black shorts and pulled out a business card, which he took. “I have a friend, she looked kind of like you do. I teach self defense classes at the Y, every night. You ever want to come by, I’ll welcome you.” She jumped up. “Your pretzel boy is coming back.”

      “Thanks, Bobbi.” He said, meaning it.

      “Anytime.” She smiled at him, replaced her earbuds, and jogged off, hair streaming behind her. Mack handed him a pretzel.

      “Who was that?” He took the seat next to Fitz.

      “Bobbi.” He answered, biting into the pretzel. “Oh, god, this is the best thing I have ever eaten.” Mack laughed.

-

      “Thank you.” Fitz said, sitting in Mack’s car in front of his building. “For tonight. It was great.”

      “Anytime, Turbo. Sleep well, okay?” Fitz assured Mack that he would.


	2. and self defense

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fighting the good fight

      Skye was in the shop the next morning, smiling brightly, too brightly, for so early in the morning. She handed him a coffee, black, ‘like your soul’ she had once said.

      “I’ve heard about your pastry adventures. Going well?” He sighed, clasping the cup tightly to still his hands.

      “No. Got three more practice days, though. I can’t get it to fold right and I keep tearing it.” She patted him on the back.

      “You’ll get it, kid. I believe in you.” Fitz took a sip of his coffee.

      “Thanks, Skye.” She smiled.

      “Dude, I finally got all the BlueTooth hooked up! I control the music now!”

      “Oh, Skye. Simmons will kill you.” Skye snorted.

      “Don’t worry, I’ll only play good music.”

      “Skye, what exactly do you constitute as good music?” In response, Brittany Spears’ ‘Toxic’ began playing from the speakers. Fitz laughed.

      "You will die. So much. I’ll write something nice for your funeral.” Skye scoffed.

      “Shut up, pastry boy. Go fold some flowers.” Fitz tied his apron behind his neck.

      “Yeah, yeah. Play some good music, okay?” Nicki Minaj blared from the speakers and Fitz flipped Skye off.

       Fitz made the Tuesday specials first, chocolate pie and all those damn muffins, and then the pastries. He kneaded the dough, not too much, but just enough. He started folding it, carefully, slowly, one fold, two fold, three, fou-

      A loud rock song started, making Fitz jump and crumple the pastry, effectively ruining it. He growled and stuck his head through the door.

      “Skye.” She turned. “Don’t play music like this, please? It messed me up.”

      “Oh, sure. Sorry.” She tapped her phone a few times and the song morphed into a calmer one.

      “Thanks.” He returned to the back.

-

      “God damn.” He swore under his breath as yet another pastry crumpled.

      “You alright there?” Melinda May asked from the doorway. Fitz looked over his shoulder and tried to rid his hands of the flour that had accumulated there.

      “Yeah, yeah, just, ah…”

      “I heard about your pastries. Portuguese, aren’t they?” Fitz nodded.

      “Yep. Good too, if you make them correctly.” Melinda took a few steps forward.

      “I also heard that Skye messed one up.” Fitz paused.

      “Not her fault, the music made me jump.” Melinda took another step forward.

      “Yes. You could get her back, though. Hunter’s unlocking tomorrow.” Fitz blinked.

      “How do you know this? May, you’re scaring me.” She smirked.

      “Get her back. You’re good with tech, figure it out.” She whispered one final thing and left. Fitz pressed his palms to his face.

      “Oh, now I’m all floury…”

-

      An hour and semi-successful, semi-horrible pastries later, and Fitz hung up his apron on the peg.

      “See you, Skye.” She turned.

      “You too, Fitz. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Fitz wound his white scarf around his neck, nodding at Simmons and ducking out, familiar bell ringing behind him.

      The Y was only a few blocks away and he wasn’t up to dealing with the bus, so he walked, the sun still visible in the sky. His shoes made muted sounds on the flecked sidewalk.

      Bobbi was stretching when he got there, but she bounced up immediately.

      “Hey, Fitz! You came!” He nodded, rubbing his hands.

      “Yeah, sorry, I didn’t bring clothes.” She shook her head.

      “You don’t need them. This class is everyday self defense, you won’t necessarily be in tennis shoes each day.” She paused and looked around. “They’ve already started, so I’m going to show you some basics.” She lead him to some mats. “Are you okay with me touching you? Like, picking you up?”

      “Should be fine.”

      “Alright, nice. C’mere, c’mere. Put your hands like this.” She positioned his hands across her neck. “If someone grabs you like this, grab their hands, and roll your shoulders like this, and use your body weight to flip them forward. Ready?”

      “Uh, sure?” Bobbi flipped him over and on instinct, he said “Wee!” and then he was sprawled out on the mats, Bobbi laughing over him.

      “Your turn. Tell me if you’re not alright, okay?” She asked, pulling his up and standing him in front of her. SHe put her arms around his neck. He braced, rolled his shoulders, and flipped her. She popped up off the mat almost immediately.

      “Nice! You’re stronger than you look. Let’s go over some other basics. So, say you’re behind a person, right? They attack you, somehow get in front of you, elbow them in the base of the spine. It’s the hardest part of your body, use it. Elbow them in the face if you need to. You’re fighting to protect yourself, not in a competition about sportsmanship.”

      The rest of the class went well. Bobbi showed Fitz how to throw punches, good punches, the kind that would break someone’s nose. ANd when they finally, finally, stopped, Fitz was panting.

      “Where do you work?” Bobbi asked, taking a sip from her water bottle.

      “Coffee shop. Don’t usually do coffee, though. I tried, but because of the,” He held up his hand and let it shake. “I  dropped a cup on my foot.’

      “Ouch.” Bobbi winced, taking the hair band out of her hair and letting it fall around her shoulders. “Maybe I’ll come by, eh? I’ve been relying on Starbucks since my old cafe closed down.”

      “Eugh, Starbucks.” Bobbi nodded.

      “I know, right?” They were the last two in the gym, fluorescent light yellow in the floor. “You need a ride home?” SHe held up her keys, jingling them slightly.

      “Sure.” Fitz slid off the bench. “Thank you.” Bobbi smiled.

      “Of course. Owe me a coffee, though.”

      “Naturally.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not a single stutter this chapter, way to go Fitz
> 
> what's the thing he's going to do to Skye, though?


	3. pranks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Raspberry ice cream and bands that don't do drugs.

      There was a chill the next morning and Fitz blew into his hands as he paced in front of the coffee shop. He was too early, but he needed to be early, he needed time to get his plan in order. He shivered and wound his blue scarf tighter around his neck.  
      “Fitz!” Hunter called, shaking the keys out in front of him, before unlocking the door. “What’re you doing here so early?”  
      “I need to mess around with the speaker.” Hunter nodded, pushing the door open into blissful warmth.  
      “Sure, man, it’s your anyway.” Fitz kneeled behind the counter and looked at the tangled mass of wires.  
      “Jesus, Skye messed this up. Look at the mess!” He ran his hands through his hair before getting started. Fitz worked for twenty minutes, attaching and reattaching wires and different pieces before getting interrupted.  
      “You doing okay, Turbo?” Fitz looked up at Mack.  
      “Yeah, techy things. Getting back at Skye.” Mack raised an eyebrow. “May told me to!” Mack whistled lowly.  
      “Do well then, Fitz. Otherwise, may will get you.” Fitz snorted and Mack rubbed his hair. “Have a nice day, alright? Call me tonight, hm?”  
      “‘Course.”Fitz connected the last wire as Mack left . He fumbled with his phone for a moment and The Front Bottoms began playing.  
      “Doesn’t Skye hate his voice?” Hunter wondered from where he was toweling off the counter.  
      “Kind of the point.” Fitz said, standing and brushing off his jeans. “They’re good though. Brian Sella sings like a dying angel.” Hunter paused, cocking his head.  
      “I hear it. Good luck with your pastries, mate.” Fitz sighed.

                                                                                                                     -  
      Fitz had done it. Kind of. Perfectly folded pastries, beautiful and uniform, and then he dropped them all, pan clattering to the floor. It wasn’t his fault, his hands just kind of let go. Still, he was angry. He picked up the scattered dough and threw it in the bin, leaving the back room to sit next to a scowling Skye behind the counter.  
      “I hate you.” Skye grumbled when she saw him. “The lyrics are weird. ‘The tree felt bad, I could tell by the way that it felt’? Is Steven high literally all of the time?” Fitz shook his head.  
      “He goes by Brian, and no.” Skye raised an eyebrow. “Really! He said that the band didn’t participate in recreational drugs.”  
      “All these songs are about weed!” She protested.  
      “Listen to the commentary if you don’t believe me!”  
      “God no! I will not willingly subject myself to this horrific music.” Fitz laughed.  
      “Nerd.” Someone entered the cafe, the bell dinging happily. “Heya, Bobbi!” She smiled widely.  
      “‘Sup, Fitz! I was crashing this morning and remembered what you said.”  
      “That I couldn’t make coffee?”  
      “That you owed me a coffee. And on that note, I’ll take a french vanilla latte and a chocolate biscotti.”  
      “Alright, cool.” You want to take Fitz to a table? He’s driving me crazy and I’ll bring you your coffee.”  
      “You drive a hard bargain, kid, but I’ll take it. Come along, Fitz-o.” Fitz followed Bobbi to a table and sat across from her. “I feel like I should know more about you.”  
      “My favourite ice cream is raspberry.” Fitz offered.  
      “Oh my god, same. It’s so good. What’s your favourite musical?”  
      “A Very Potter Musical.” Bobbi clapped her hands to her mouth.  
      “It’s so good!” Fitz narrowed his eyes.  
      “What’s your favourite candy?” He asked.  
      “Red Vines.” Bobbi answered instantly before cackling. “What’s your favourite colour?”  
      “Green. What’s your favourite animal?”  
      “Cat. What’s your favourite type of tree?”  
      “Willow. Favourite kind of cat?”  
      “Scottish fold, actually.”  
      “Really?” Fitz asked. Bobbi nodded. “What’s it called?”  
      “Leo.” Fitz gasped.  
      “You literally have a Scottish cat named after me.” Bobbi quirked her eyebrows. “Leopold’s my first time.”  
      “No kidding? What a world, huh. You’ll have to come meet her someday.” Skye set down Bobbi’s plate and cup with a clink. “Thank you.” She took a sip of her latte.         “Jesus, this is good.”  
      “Finally, someone sees me for who I am.” Skye smirked and walked away.  
      “You want some?” Fitz shook his head. Bobbi took a crisp bite of the biscotti and moaned. “Mary mother of God.”  
      “I made those. Are they alright? I put a little more cinnamon in them this time around.” Bobbi leaned forward and tapped her biscotti on both of his shoulders.  
      “I dub thee Mary. You made something God-like.” Fitz laughed.  
      “Won’t I need one of those shawl things, though?” Bobbi shrugged.   
      “I mean, you got the scarves. Just put it over your head, y’know?”  
      “I could do that.” Bobbi smiled.  
      “I know.” She downed the rest of the coffee. “If you ever need to talk, call me. We can go for a run or get ice cream. My number’s on that card, kay, kiddo?”  
      “Sure, Bobs.” She smiled.  
      “I’ll see you, then. Classes at night. See you, Mary.” The bell rang behind her and Fitz slid back behind the counter.  
      “She alright?” Skye asked.  
      “Yeah, she’s good. Taught me how to punch.” Skye grinned.  
      “‘Ey! Good, man.” The bell rang and Hunter swept in.  
      “Guys, guys, I just say my devil of an ex-wife.”  
      “You were married?” Skye laughed.

      “Yes!” Hunter said offended. “I was. Expect someone to know something about a friend.” He scoffed.  
      “Fitz.” He looked up to see May in front of the counter. “You did good. You can see the hate in her eyes.” Skye’s mouth formed an ‘o’.  
      “You’re the one that put the music hit on me? Wow, May, I thought we were friends.” May shrugged, smirking.  
      “I’m not aligning myself yet. However, a coffee might change that…”  
Fitz stayed late that night, it was movie night, after all. And it was his pick, so it was double the reason to stay. Any reason to watch Totoro. Hunter, however, was grumbling about watching two Ghibli movies in a row.  
      “Shut up.” Fitz said, leaning against Mack. “Last time we let you pick, you chose Wickerman.”  
      “It was good!” Hunter protested.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yo look at that. not one stutter. nice, fitz!
> 
> if you have any prompts you'd like me to write, or things you'd like for me to include in this story strain, just comment it and i'll see what i can do
> 
> ((where's ward))


	4. and pre-teens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> raspberry ice cream and netflix

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> italics - fitz
> 
> underlined - bobbi

Fitz woke up too early the next morning, dad tired and not going back to sleep. He reached for his phone, but it slipped out of his left hand and clattered noisily against the floor. He sighed and leaned back, head hitting the pillow with a dull thump.  Today was going to be a bad day.

A few minutes later, he had carefully retrieved his phone and shot off a text to Skye, telling her that he wasn’t coming in. He layed back in bed, eyes closed but not asleep, until the sun broke through and light came pouring in. He shot off another text, this time to Bobbi.

 

_ Is it too early to take you up on that ice cream offer? _

 

‘Course not

 

I’ll be there in like an hour. Got Netflix?

 

_ Yeah ? _

 

Good

 

True to her word, Bobbi busted through the door and hour later, laden with paper bags.

“‘Sup, Fitz?” Fitz moaned from the couch, face pushed into the cushions. “Bad day, huh?” Fitz moaned again. “Dude, you’re apartment is nice.”

“Be p-p-proud. Y-you’re the-the only one.” Bobbi entered his small living room, holding two bowls.  She shoved one into Fitz’s good hand.

“Eat and watch weird teen movies.” She logged onto his Netflix.

Somehow they ended up watching an odd movie about gymnastics and instead of actually paying attention to the plot, they made up their own.

“You see,” Bobbi said, “the paralytic lesbian here is in love with the blonde bisexual, who pushed her off the balance beam, but she’s in love with the dude!” Fitz was crying with laughter. “And Maddie and that girl are in love.”

“They’re actually six! Or se-seven!” Bobbi snorted.

“That’s not too early to figure it out!” Fitz laughed again, drunk on sleep deprivation and raspberry ice cream. Bobbi smiled at him, tugging a hand through his hair.

“Go to sleep, huh, kid?” She said. “You’ve got to make pastries tomorrow.”

“B-but what if it’s a… Not good day?” Bobbi wound his hair around her fingers.

“Maybe you should look into getting a support cat or dog thing.” Fitz mumbled something unintelligible. Bobbi stood slowly, careful not to disturb Fitz, and threw a blanket over him.

The door clicked quietly behind her and Fitz turned in his sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yee


	5. fuck you, you fucking pastry orderer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fitz did it

Fitz got to the cafe extra early the next day, flower-print scarf draped over his shoulders. Skye opened the door and bowed with a flourish.

“To your station, pastry king.” Fitz laughs.

“Where else would I be?” Fitz ties his apron behind his neck. “I’ll see you on the other side, nerd.” And Fitz gets to work in backroom, mixing and rolling out dough on an adequately floured surface. He worked for an hour before getting interrupted.

“Hey, Fitz.” Mack presses a coffee into his hands. “Drink before you fall asleep.” Fitz does. “Are you okay?” Fitz nods.

“Yeah. Yesterday was just a bad day.” Mack stays and Fitz goes back to working, folding, folding, folding, and refolding. It was tedious and it hurt Fitz’s hands, but he did it and he did it well, albeit slowly.

While his dozen of perfection bake, he tries to relax and calm his nerves. He talks to Mack and Mack tells him stories, but when the time chimes, he bolts from his stool to the oven and pulls out his pastries.

He fans them off quickly and looks at them. They look perfect. He arranges them carefully in a brown box and ties it with blue and white string. He sighs, leans back, and wipes his hands on his apron. He’s done and all that’s left to do is wait.

Wait he does as seconds tick by on the clock. He tries, tries, tries, to focus on Mack’s talking, but he keeps wondering who ordered the pastries.  It’s foolish and his guess is probably completely off, but he thinks that it’s an overprotective mother of three, and today is her anniversary with her Portuguese husband. She ordered the pastries because he used to tell her all about them and how he’d buy them from the bakery down the street. He thinks that it’s sweet even though it won’t happen, but there’s always the possibility that it might.

“Fitz!” Skye pokes her head through the doorway. “Your pastry person is here.” Fitz almost falls on the floor, but he catches himself at the last moment. He grabs the box and darts through the door. 

Phil Coulson is standing on the other side of the counter and Fitz really wasn’t right, but he is like an overprotective mother so maybe he was.

“Are those my pastries?” Fitz blinks.

“Oh, fuck you, you fucking pastry orderer.” It’s Coulson’s turn to blink. “What the hell were you doing, ordering these?”

“I like them. I spent a lot of time in Portugal when I was younger.” Fitz turns to Skye.

“And what the hell were you thinking, not telling me he ordered them?” Skye winces.

“We thought it might help your hand…?” Fitz huffs.

“It did, but fuck you. You could’ve just told me.” Skye looked down. “I’m not a kid! You can tell me when you’re trying to help me. I may not be completely right, but I can understand things.”

“I know.” Skye says. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.” Fitz says, tossing a strand of Skye’s hair over her shoulder. “I understand why you did it, okay? Just don’t.” He turns to Coulson. “Enjoy your pastries, you fuck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> was it who you thought it was going to be?  
> and thank god i'm done writing this
> 
> you can find me on twitter @RunawayCaboose


End file.
